


Reason will not lead to solution

by swatkat



Category: Legend of the Seeker
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, F/F, Magic Made Them Do It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 21:22:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swatkat/pseuds/swatkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard and Zedd are abducted by giant winged monsters while plucking berries one afternoon. Cara and Kahlan to the rescue! (Powerful magic is involved. And aphrodisiacs.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reason will not lead to solution

**Author's Note:**

> An excuse to have magic make them do it, basically.

  
+

Richard and Zedd are abducted by giant winged monsters while plucking berries one afternoon.  


Cara cannot say she is surprised. She has immense faith in her Lord Rahl's capacity to fall into trouble while doing something perfectly innocuous like pandering to Zedd's gluttony.  


'I've never seen gars like that,' Kahlan says, worry etched in her features. 'That too in broad daylight!'  


'You would know,' Cara can't help but smirk, ignoring the way Kahlan glares at her.

  
+

A trip to the nearest town and one too-short episode involving a sniveling youth and her Agiels later, Cara is armed with several facts, such as: the giant winged monsters were in reality a breed of modified gars, cross-bred with black-tipped racers with the assistance of powerful magic (Kahlan looks rather smug upon hearing _that_ piece of information); that the said creatures are bred and maintained in the stables of the local warlord, one Madame Mylla; and that the woods they had camped in are in fact a part of her personal lands, patrolled by the creatures to keep intruders at bay. It's a petty show of power and nothing more, but it's something that appears to work on the locals.  


So it always is with these inconsequential warlords in D'Hara. In her time with Darken Rahl, Cara had the pleasure of putting many such fools with delusions of grandeur to their places.  


'What happens to trespassers if they are caught?' Kahlan says, stern. Only Cara notices the slight tremor in her voice.  


'Fed to the monsters,' says the blubbering idiot, letting out a little shriek when Cara caresses his skin with one of her Agiels. 'The dungeons! She, uh, likes to chain them up.'  


The thought of Richard Rahl, the rightful lord and master of D'Hara, chained up in an insignificant D'Haran dungeon is enough to make her blood boil. 'You will take us to this Madame Mylla,' she tells him, 'and you will tell her that—'  


She is interrupted by a gentle 'Cara', and Kahlan's hand coming to rest on her forearm.  


' _What?_ ' Cara says, making no effort to mask her irritation.  


'It's probably best if we don't reveal who Richard is at the moment,' Kahlan says, clutching her arm a little tighter. Cara lets it slide, and considers.  


D'Hara's current state is nebulous, with most of the self-styled lords and ladies showing little interest in re-aligning themselves with the newly-resurrected Darken Rahl—it might indeed be strategically unwise to make known Richard's true identity, tempting though it is.  


'You're right,' she nods. 'We won't.'  


'We need more information before we can act,' Kahlan says, a small frown creasing her forehead.  


'Leave that to me,' Cara says, gently extricating her hand from Kahlan's firm grip.  


Investigation has always been one of her great skills. It's something she happens to enjoy very much.

+

'Are you sure this is a good idea?'  


'Yes,' Cara says shortly.  


'Maybe you should wear something else,' Kahlan persists. 'We could get you something.'  


'Of course not,' Cara snaps, affronted at the very idea of taking off her Mord-Sith leather and pretending to be someone else—something less than a Mord-Sith. It is the highest form of ignominy, one she has already borne once for Kahlan's sake. There will be no more dresses, and certainly no more rhyming.  


Kahlan nods, still appearing so thoroughly miserable that Cara has to explain, 'This is D'Hara. I'm Mord-Sith. Our alliance is considered valuable.'  


In these times of upheaval, some Mord-Sith have taken to offering a helping hand to deserving candidates in exchange of gold and other recompense. It is far beneath the dignity of the Mord-Sith, who are warriors dedicated to the service of Lord Rahl and not glorified mercenaries, but Cara can think of worse fates.  


'And if it doesn't work, we'll kill them all,' she tells Kahlan, reassuring. _That_ earns her a snort of laughter, and Kahlan shaking her head in a fond, exasperated fashion.  


Cara does not care to clarify that she is entirely serious. Kahlan should know.

+

Madame Mylla is known for her eccentricities. Most self-styled warlords in D'Hara are. Lacking the Lord Rahl's natural ability to command the masses with a snap of his fingers, they take resort to other means, deriving authority from petty tricks and carefully cultivated peculiarities that pass for nobility to commoners who don't know better.  


Still, there's something to be said for the effort some of them put in, Cara thinks, feeling almost charitable as she takes in the her surroundings, making note of the possible exits. The stone walls of their host's so-called castle, while not _precisely_ the same as the Mord-Sith temples Cara has known all her life, are decent enough; the leather skirts worn by her personal guards—women, all of them—are pleasingly short.  


The hostess herself is a formidable figure, bedecked in what might be termed a scant imitation of Mord-Sith gear: leather and laces, for show rather than battle. There's a menacing whip hanging by her side, and Cara has little doubt that she is well-versed in wielding the same. It's the kind of thing that would impress simple D'Haran peasants in these parts.  


She rises from her seat in one fluid motion, smiling a wide, predatory smile at Cara. 'It is an honor to have a true Mord-Sith among us,' she says. Her deep voice rings with authority.  


'We won't be staying very long,' Cara says with a small nod. 'Your hospitality is appreciated.' From the corner of her eye she sees Kahlan dip into a curtsy, playing the part of the diffident companion to the hilt. It is important—since they _are_ going ahead with this charade—that she is not recognized. The Mother Confessor would not be welcome here.  


'It's the least I could do, Mistress—'  


'Cara.'  


'Mistress Cara.' Their hostess' smile grows wider. 'Ivan here will see to your needs.'  


Ivan—who is a young man with a weak chin and what appears to be a permanently stricken expression on his face—bobs his head nervously at them. 'We have arranged for accommodation for you and your consort,' he tells Cara.  


'I hope you find them satisfactory,' their hostess says, an intriguing gleam in her eyes.

+

The plush quarters assigned to them are garishly decorated, in shades of red and gold that remind her of the previousLord Rahl. The bed, also adorned in red, is large enough to fit far more than just the two of them—designed, Cara has little doubt, for activities _other_ than sleeping.  


It certainly makes clear the glint in their hostess' eyes. Cara is Mord-Sith, and the Mord-Sith have their reputation.  


'I hope things are to your satisfaction, Mistress,' Ivan says with an obsequious bow.  


'I would like a bath,' Cara says.

+

Madam Mylla's bath house is a near perfect replica of the Mord-Sith bath houses Cara has missed so in the course of her travels with Richard, and one luxurious hour later, Cara is prepared to take on the entire world. Kahlan appears less than enamored, but that is only to be expected: Confessors, after all, are champions in denying themselves every sort of pleasure, holding themselves to an impossible standard that Cara cannot—will never—understand or appreciate.  


She does appear to have befriended a very acquiescent Ivan—who hangs onto every word Kahlan says—and this Cara does appreciate: to have the minions charmed is sound strategy, and Cara cannot say it is an art she has mastered very much. She prefers to let her Agiels to do the talking.

+

As it would happen, their hostess is very much in awe of Cara's Agiels— _captivated_ by them in the way only less D'Haran nobility can be. They see in them a kind of power they themselves can never hope to command, and that places Cara in a position she has every intention of exploiting.  


Ivan ushers them into a large dining hall, wherein they are served an elaborate meal, overseen by none other than Madam Mylla herself. 'I have heard many things about the prowess of the Mord-Sith,' she tells Cara as they dine, a small smile playing on the corner of her lips.  


'Such as?' Cara raises an eyebrow, although she already knows where this conversation is going.  


The Mord-Sith have their reputation.  


'I've heard that you are mistresses of pain as well as... _pleasure_ ,' Madam Mylla says, leaning closer, her voice now lowered to a throaty purr. 'Perhaps you would like to join me on a moonlight cruise tonight aboard my pleasure barge?'  


Kahlan looks like she's about to choke on something.  


'I would be delighted,' Cara says.

+

It is late when Cara finally returns to their quarters, and she finds herself being greeted with a hissed, _'Where have you been?'_  


Kahlan, Cara notes, _does not_ look pleased.  


'Some of us remember why we're _here_ ,' Kahlan continues. 'While you were busy _cruising_ with our hostess, I managed to secure a map of the castle.' She waves a parchment in Cara's general direction, which Cara then proceeds to lay out on the small desk beside their bed for proper study.  


'There's one entrance to the dungeons here,' Kahlan says, pointing to a location in the map. 'And another one here. They're both heavily guarded.'  


'I know,' Cara tells Kahlan. 'I convinced her to show me around the castle instead.'  


Kahlan looks only slightly mollified at that.

+

  


Sleep is hard to come by that night. The bed is too soft and Kahlan is too near, curled close as she always is when they have occasion to share a bed. Their feet are tangled together, as they have been at times in the past—Cara should not find it so... overwhelming.  


She blames Madam Mylla and her many efforts to seduce Cara in the course of the evening.  


Perhaps she should have taken her up on her offer.

+

Cara spends most of the following day plotting their rescue and exit.  


Kahlan's new friend—as becomes evident—has very little in the way of discretion. One bright smile and a gentle hand on his shoulder, and Ivan tells Kahlan almost everything they need to know.  


It is, Cara has to admit, almost as effective as Cara's preferred method of interrogation—that is to say a few pokes with her Agiels in all the right places.  


In the evening they're led to Madam Mylla's private gardens—to a vast, perfumed bower that no self-respecting Mord-Sith should ever be seen in, unless she's there to burn it down and kill the enemies of Lord Rahl. The fragrance alone makes Cara want to sneeze—or make a dash for the dungeons and get Richard out _now_ , bashing a skull or five in the process.  


She's pulled out of her reverie by the hand that grabs her by the elbow, firm. 'Be patient,' Kahlan murmurs, in a way that means she has managed to read Cara yet again. It is becoming a habit.  


She grits her teeth and wills herself to bear the evening's entertainment—a demonstration of martial skill featuring two semi-clad swordswomen, who grapple at one another with great gusto.  


Cara grows increasingly uneasy over the course of the evening, sipping on wine and plucking absently at the unfamiliar fruit served on a platter before her.  


She chances a quick look at Kahlan, who holds herself very stiffly, experiencing, in all likelihood, that same sense of discomfort, though for what reason Cara cannot tell.  


It becomes abundantly clear once Madam Mylla draws close, breath hot on Cara's face as she says, 'Did you like the fruits from my garden, Mistress Cara?' There's a growing throb between her legs; a quickening of her pulse, unexpected.  


'They are very nice,' Cara says evenly.  


'They're unique to these parts, and very hard to grow without the assistance of powerful magic,' says their hostess, fingers reaching out to caress Cara's neck oh-so-lightly. Cara should break her arm for that impudence alone, but all she manages is a weak nod as she violently quenches the sudden, foolish desire to lean into that touch. 'We protect our gardens zealously. Every now and then you have an idiot trying to break in, trying to make money off the priceless fruits. The other day we caught a couple of them and threw them in the dungeons, where they belong.' Her eyes gleam with vicious pleasure.  


'What are they?' Kahlan interjects, sounding far shriller than her usual self. It is, Cara is certain now, not solely because their hostess just confirmed that Richard and Zedd are indeed being held captive by her.  


'The Creator's Passion, we call them,' Madam Mylla says, barely sparing Kahlan a glance. 'There are some that believe that they grant you immortality. There are others,' she nearly purrs, 'who will tell you that they're powerful aphrodisiacs.' The tip of her tongue touches Cara's earlobe.  


Heat pools low in her belly, and Cara has to drag herself away with supreme effort. 'I see,' she says, brusque.  


Madam Mylla looks thoroughly disappointed when Cara mutters her apologies and excuses herself for the evening.

+

'Cara, _wait_ ,' she hears Kahlan call out, footsteps echoing on the stone corridors. Her face, when Cara pauses and turns, is flushed.  


'They're being held here,' Kahlan says, not looking Cara in the eye.  


Cara could point out that it's stating the obvious, but all she says is, 'Yes.'  


'Ivan said the guards change shifts at dawn,' Kahlan says, standing far closer than strictly necessary. Cara is inexplicably drawn to the shape of Kahlan's lips, full, elegant. 'We'll have to wait until then.'  


'Yes,' Cara says again. It seems impossible to _not_ reach out and trace the small scar just above Kahlan's upper lip, and so Cara does precisely that, noting the way it makes Kahlan shiver.  


At the first touch of their lips, Cara's world goes up in flames. Kahlan's lips are soft, insistent, and they respond to Cara's ministrations with a hunger that matches her own.  


They're both panting when they pull apart to draw breath. 'It's the aphrodisiac,' Kahlan says, stricken.  


'The effect will wear off soon,' Cara says.

+

The effect doesn't wear off.  


Cara finds herself pacing the length of their quarters, the burn between her legs growing steadily difficult to ignore. Magical aphrodisiacs can be unpredictable, as Cara herself has experienced in the past, and she wishes—more than once—she could take matters into her own hands. Or perhaps enlist one of Madam Mylla's guards for the task, press her up against the stone walls of the castle and—  


'Are you all right?' Kahlan says, looking at her with dark, concerned eyes.  


'Why shouldn't I be?' Cara snaps, loathing the way her voice breaks. She is Mord-Sith. She has more self-control than this.  


'You look tense,' Kahlan tells her. 'If you're worried about what happened earlier—'  


'I'm _not_ ,' Cara says, because she is not Kahlan and she does not _worry_. She would have also preferred to notbe reminded of what transpired between them in that cursed corridor because Kahlan is right thereand this damned aphrodisiac is addling her mind, which must explain why she's reaching for Kahlan _again_ and pressing her lips firmly against hers.  


It certainly explains the way Kahlan opens up at the slightest touch, kissing her back with a ferocity that leaves Cara breathless, want coursing through her veins like liquid fire.  


Kahlan confesses to as much when they finally pull apart, her breath hot on Cara's skin. 'Cara,' she says, her voice low and urgent, 'I can't _think_.' It's halfway between a command and a plea, and Cara has to dip her head to kiss Kahlan's throat, then, noting the way it makes her groan and shiver.  


'Cara,' Kahlan says again, even as she arches against her touch, helpless. The Mother Confessor is also a _woman_ —flesh and blood, with desires, needs. The thought sends a warm pulse down her spine, all the way between her thighs until it becomes impossible to deny the obvious: Cara may have been designed to ward off powerful magic of various sorts, but there is no fighting this.  


And besides, she is useless to Richard like this—panting with lust like a dog in heat.  


She says so much to Kahlan, who swallows hard, and nods. 'We have to work through this,' she says. Her eyes are dark with magic and arousal.  


That is all the acquiescence Cara needs.  


Kahlan unravels with the laces to her bodice, breath growing uneven with every touch. She slides her arms around Cara's waist and claims her lips in a hungry, near-bruising kiss.  


There's something to be said for the confidence with which Kahlan sets about her task, making short work Cara's leathers and sliding her hands down Cara's stomach, making her gasp. Her fingers are sure when they slip inside Cara, her smile a heady mix of mischief and something more, something darker, intimations of which she has felt every now and then underneath that perfectly _good_ exterior.  


It's not what Cara expected.  


She could, if she wished, reverse their positions without much effortand take Kahlan _right now_. It would be pleasing—very pleasing indeed. But the thought that there might be something more to Confessors—to _Kahlan_ —than holding hands and singing devotional songs dedicated to the Creator is exhilarating. She lets herself give in to the feeling, to the magic and the steady rhythm of Kahlan's fingers; the quiet insistence in her eyes, her lips as they map the contours of Cara's skin.  


Her gasps turn into a whimper when Kahlan's fingers curl inside her. 'Look at me,' she hears Kahlan say, and then she's being held in a rough stranglehold, long fingers wrapping tightly around Cara's throat. Kahlan's eyes are nearly black, now; fierce. Cara has never seen anything like it.  


It's a good thing that they'll never speak of this again, Cara thinks as she tumbles over to the edge; finishes, hard and fast, grinding against Kahlan's fingers like an eager adolescent.

+

They do, in fact, talk about it—immediately after as she helps Kahlan with her dress, in the same way she would do with her sisters.  


Cara allows it, because this is Kahlan, and Kahlan always has to _talk_ and _discuss_ things that are best left unspoken.  


'I—' Kahlan says, dipping her head and smiling softly, with a hint of shyness that is far more like the Kahlan she has come to know over time. 'Thank you. For your... help.'  


And if there's a small part of Cara that wishes to return her smile—well. Lingering after-effects of the magic, no doubt.

+

The smile that she breaks into when they finally find Richard, however—at dawn, following their earlier plan—has nothing to do with leftover magic and everything to do with the state they find Richard in: chained to the wall, in nothing but a loincloth that leaves little to the imagination. His chest and stomach glisten with what appears to be oil, giving off a musky aroma.  


'Lord Rahl,' Cara drawls, enjoying the way Richard blushes _scarlet_ , 'I hope you're not too uncomfortable.'  


Kahlan clears her throat and says, 'I'll, uh, go find Zedd.'  


'Get me something to wear,' Richard says once Kahlan is out of earshot. 'Please.'  


'As you wish,' Cara tells him, and smirks at him some more.

+

In the end, it's a satisfying rescue mission—Cara enjoys knocking the leather-clad guards around and stealing four of Madam Mylla's finest horses. They ride out of town, triumphant, Zedd's blast of magic warding off the last of their pursuers.  


Richard colors unaccountably every time anyone mentions their incarceration. It makes for most of Cara's entertainment when they make camp.  


'And how was _your_ stay, my dear?' Zedd says, jovial, patting Kahlan on the back. 'You've been quiet all day.'  


Their eyes meet, once. Cara feels an inexplicable urge to clear her throat.  


'It was... better than what I expected,' Kahlan says, and smiles.

+++

  


**Author's Note:**

> This is by no means a crossover, but I had tons of fun pretending that poor, harassed Ivan is from Oglaf.


End file.
